


Didacticism

by MistMorpheus



Category: Cytus (Video Game)
Genre: Ambiguous/Open Ending, Dreams and Nightmares, Emotional Infidelity, Emotionally Repressed, Ex Sex, F/M, M/M, Wet Dream, but not really
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-03-25
Updated: 2019-03-25
Packaged: 2019-12-07 11:57:19
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,223
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18234554
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/MistMorpheus/pseuds/MistMorpheus
Summary: I still dream of you





	Didacticism

**Author's Note:**

> The tagging system just can't get "ConneR" right. I'm done trying, so please bear with the (lack of) capitalization.  
> Originally posted at http://mistmorpheus.lofter.com/post/1d86fa96_12c05346c on 30 Oct, 2018. Upload for archival purposes.

Simon woke up to a fit of coughing; a metallic taste surged from his throat, coating his oral cavity. The air smelled rusty and clinical. "Where are we?" He croaked, a little taken aback by his own voice. The man bending over a wooden desk answered: "Safe house." His tone was unruffled, disinterested even, which betrayed no underlying theory or intention with regard to the justifiably alarming phrase itself.

"You saved me again, didn't you?" No answer. Simon looked at the man; there was a scar starting at the corner of one ear, which disappeared down his shirt collar. From here on Simon's eyes had to wander. He wondered how many untraced scars there are, among the taut sinews on his back working in close coordination. He thus felt compelled to ask. "If it were not me, " he breathed, "would you have done the same?"

The man paused to turn. Golden, hawkish eyes surveyed him. "You are doubting my conscience."

Simon didn't look away. "That's not what I meant. I believe in you, Colin."

Colin gazed at him for a while longer, then turned again. For a moment clinks of glass of metal were all to be heard, until he walked briskly up to the bed Simon was lying upon, a syringe in hand. Simon watched as a drop of clear liquid drips from the tip of the needle. "You ask me a question I ask myself by the day, Simon." He said, surprisingly wearily, lining up the needle with a vein on Simon's forearm, dark against pale skin. "Now go back to sleep."  
  


Simon woke up, gasping for air. Their bedroom was pitch-dark. Beside him Sherry stirred, and her hand came up to idly stroke his back. "Shhhhh. It was only a dream. Only a dream," she purred, as if cooing a child, half asleep and half awake; she continued to stroke his back, once, twice. Then all was still again. Simon stared into the vacant darkness. All was devoid of meaning, was faceless, clean, not necessitating even one lie. Simon felt alone. He felt almost dead.

He got up, imagining himself to be shaky. He walked to the bathroom, turned on the light, and locked the door. He stared into the mirror, expecting to find traces of tears on his cheeks, but there was none. He silently stripped off his pajamas, then his underpants, cold and wet and heavy. As he bent his now flaccid and equally wet member for a moment pressed cold against the sink, a pathetic aftermath; he hastily stepped back, and scrubbed the sink meticulously with soap and water. Then he walked to the shower, underpants dangling from his hand like a dead bird, and turned on the tap. Cold water would simulate sanity.

He had dreamed of the safe house again, himself bounded by the bed, Colin behind him, biting, licking, pinching and stroking his length but both of them deliberately avoiding each other's lips as if by some unspoken contract, as if this alone constituted passion and criminality, and all else could be easily explained away by rationale. Simon was undignified enough: he remembered seeing a wet patch on the pillowcase in a brief moment of consciousness, which was half tears and half saliva. But when he was close Colin let go, both of them finishing themselves off, Simon moaning high-pitched as he came and was officially detached from the situation.

Simon watched his sense of elation fade as stains on the fabric were washed away by running water. If freedom exists, he thought, it must be elsewhere.  
  


"I have something to tell you," Simon announced at the breakfast table.

Sherry looked up from her plate with interest and a tad bit of concern. "You look pale," she commented. "What is it?"

"Colin texted me," Simon said. He always felt the urge to spill everything, once and for all, when he was with Sherry; he didn't know if she was aware of being at such an advantage.

"Then reply him," Cherry shrugged, clearly unfazed. "It's entirely your business."

"It is not that."

Sherry, eyes downcast, stirred absent-mindedly but steadily her bowl of porridge. "Simon," she spoke, voice gentle, "if you want to call him, meet him—if you want to do anything with him—just do it. I mean absolutely anything." She looked up, the earnestness in her features disarming. "I know you love me," she added, her smile genuine, confident, almost proud. It hurt to look at.

I do. Do I? Simon only nodded.

Sherry smiled some more. She looked beautiful when she smiled. "Just go ahead and do what you want to do, as long as you tell me everything."

"I will tell you everything," Simon echoed.

Sherry poked cheerfully at a strawberry in her plate. "Back to the text," she said casually, a mere afterthought, "what was it he said that bothers you so much?"

"I am not bothered," Simon answered, a little too quickly. He winced.

Sherry laughed. "You clearly are," she said playfully, "so spit it out."

"Not today," Simon answered, suddenly feeling too tired to speak. He struggled to hastily add, as worry started to tint her rosy countenance, "I will. I promise. I'm just not ready yet." In the briefest fragment of time he realized his biggest fear was to lose her; she turning her back upon him was beyond his imagination. He would not sadden her, would never disappoint her. The revelation cut him like a knife.

"Okay," reassured Sherry, her almost cajoling tone rousing in Simon a wave of fond nausea. Her hand covered Simon's across the table. They lapsed into routine silence.  
  


C. Yesterday, 03:12

I want you.

C. Yesterday, 03:12

Could I have you again?

C. Yesterday, 10:02

I was inclined to say I was not in my right mind last night, and tell you to forget about it.

C. Yesterday, 10:02

Heat of the moment, etc.

C. Yesterday, 10:03

But it wasn't. I was serious.

C. Yesterday, 10:05

I'm sorry if this causes you pain, or trouble, in case your girlfriend looks at your phone. But I trust that she won't. And pain—isn't that what we live on?

C. Yesterday, 10:06

I want you.

C. Yesterday, 10:06

I still do.

C. Yesterday, 10:07

I don't think I could ever stop.

C. Yesterday, 11:00

When can I see you again?  
  


Simon scrolled up and down the screen for long enough that the letters were imprinted upon his retinae, that he could see them dancing even if he closed his eyes. With trembling, cold fingers and a racing heart he typed, mouthing silently the words, mesmerized with his own euphoria:

[I want you too. See you around 4, where we used to be]

He blinked at the typed message with a degree of disbelief. Then his features softened, and a sad, private, nostalgic smile ghosted his lips. He was standing beneath an anonymous bandstand, in the part of the Node lifeless in the daytime. In the distance, a crow preached a farewall.

He closed his eyes.

He tapped on a key on his keyboard, once.

And once again. And yet once again. Tap, tap and tap, until he pressed firmly on it, his knuckles white, and wouldn't let go.

It had started to rain.


End file.
